


Little Darlin' - Imperfect is the New Perfect

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [70]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute Kids, Cute adults, Gen, Hair Braiding, Makeover, Sherlock's Hair, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year Violet got a <em>Miss Dolly’s Hair and Lipstick Palace</em> for Christmas made for some all-new events at Baker street, and more than a few  embarrassing ones out in the field.</p><p>A series of short fics about Violet's House of Hair shenanigans, Sherlock's princess hair and John being very pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I’m Gonna Smile and Not Fit In

**Author's Note:**

> The main title and the chapter titles all come from the Caitlin Crosby song, [Imperfect is the New Perfect.](http://youtu.be/E2kga3FJMs0)
> 
> My thanks again to Natsuko1978 who helped me come up with some of these scenarios...

The year Violet got a _Miss Dolly’s Hair and Lipstick Palace_ for Christmas made for some all-new events at Baker street, and more than a few embarrassing ones out in the field.

John was inclined to lay responsibility at the gift-giver Mrs Hudson’s feet. Not ‘blame’, precisely, because that would imply that he did not find the whole thing hilarious. Awkward at times (and on one occasion downright unnerving) but on the whole he had been very entertained. This perhaps was because his hair was too short to effectively plait.

Sherlock, the adorable wally, had loved every second of it. John, when sober, almost never referred to Sherlock as an adorable anything, let alone an adorable wally, and never to his face. But in this instance, it was the only description that fit. Sherlock patiently put up with whatever Mademoiselle Violet decided was in fashion for the day, and dealt with the consequences blithely.


	2. Too colourful to conceal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shows up at a crime scene wearing something unusual. It's to conceal something just a little more unusual. Greg pursues his curiosity in the finest detective tradition...

Sherlock was stalking about the crime scene in his usual manner. Sudden darts and dashes, swoops and stretches, pausing suddenly to sniff or study or, less hygienically, taste things.

John was doing his usual job too – standing to one side, asking questions, offering comment on request, giving his medical opinion on the state of the body. It was business as usual, apparently. Neither of them seem to have noticed the _thing_ , though of course it was _impossible_ for them not to know.

Greg Lestrade couldn’t stop staring at Sherlock’s head. At the beanie, tugged down low over Sherlock’s usual riot of curls. Strange lumps were visible under the wool.

Sherlock strode over to state his conclusions, John at his side, and five minutes into the monologue he stopped to glare at Greg.

“Greg, are you even listening?”

Greg blinked. “You have a butterfly on your lapel.”

Sherlock’s brows drew down in a scowl, but John leaned over. “Oh yes, I see.”  He reached over, under the Belstaff, and plucked a bright purple sequinned butterfly hairclip from the lapel of Sherlock’s suit jacket. “You missed one.”

Sherlock took the bow from John’s hand, placed it in his pocket, and tilted a piercing look at the DI.

“Are you ready to listen yet?”

“Not quite.”  Greg reached out to the beanie, took the front of it between thumb and forefinger and lifted it up, though not quite off, to peer at the lumps against Sherlock’s scalp.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t have time to take them out,” said Sherlock, “You said it was urgent that we get here.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“And if you had ever had your hair plaited by a five year old, you would realise how impossible it is to unplait your hair in under half an hour.”

“She has made a lot of them, hasn’t she?”

“Forty nine,” said Sherlock, “She was working on number fifty when you called. She wants to finish when we get back.”

Greg leaned closer, lifted the beanie up just a little further. “You’ve got another butterfly in there.”

“I have three more butterflies in there. The green one, the pink one with red trim and the yellow one. Now, if you’re finished being fascinated by my head, you have a murderer to catch.”

But Greg had not quite finished with his distractions at all. He looked to John. “No plaits for you?”

“Hair’s too short and too fine,” said John, as though this were a great regret, “But Violet said she’s going to do my face later, and make me pretty.”

“Sure she’s got enough make-up for that?”

“Bastard,” said John good naturedly, “For that you won’t get to see the results.”

“I’m certain I can offer Sherlock some incentive to send me photos anyway.”

“ _If you’re done?_ ” Sherlock was impatient, apparently, to get back to getting his fiftieth plait.

“Yeah, Sherlock, sorry. Fire away. Oh, but before you do – you look very fetching. Kind of hip-hop. I can’t wait till she’s got you in cornrows.”

“ _Your murderer_ ,” said Sherlock emphatically, “Is a six foot tall plumber with a limp who used to have a potbellied pig as a pet, until the victim Mr Sotherby here _ate_ it.”

“Is that what the apple in his mouth was all about?”

“That and the cherries stuck in his eyes on bamboo skewers, yes.”

“Right. We’ll look into his friends and colleagues for a  match, then.”

“Do.” Sherlock stepped and turned with a dramatic flair, letting the coat swoop and settle, though it lost some of the effect due to the beanie.

“And Sherlock?!” Lestrade shouted after him, “Tell Violet she did a bang-up job of your hair.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and grinned widely at Lestrade.  “I already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://www.aliexpress.com/item/Free-Shipping-600pcs-Sequin-Hair-Bows-Embroideried-sequin-bows-Applique-Hair-accessories-Garment-accessories-DIY-craft/1460421268.html>Here%20are%20the%20sequinned%20butterfly%20clips%20in%20question.%20</a>)


	3. I'll Shake My Curves and Not Give a F*ck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirupa and Mary are Violet's make-up guinea pigs one afternoon. They try to explain to her why she shouldn't copy her father's swearing, and that she shouldn't agree with Sherlock that everyone's an idiot, and then Violet decides to make everyone pretty.

The radio was playing classic rock from the first decade of the 2000s and Violet was busy doing Nirupa’s hair. Nirupa’s hair was black and silky, and really long, so it was both more fun and a little more difficult than doing up Sherlock’s hair, and _way_ better than doing either Daddy’s or Mummy’s short hair.

Nirupa lifted her elegant hand to gesture at the hair piled in a single clumsy plait on top of her head, held together with six non-slip combs surmounted by diamante flowers.

“The Nigerian Yorubas use hairstyles to signify things about religion, marital status and even their jobs. I’ll draw you some pictures later,” she said.

“Is that with plaits?” Violet asked.

“Lots of plaits.”

“Like I made Sherlock’s pretty fucking princess hair prettier with plaits?”

Nirupa and Mary, who was watching from the sidelines, exchanged a glance.

“A bit like that,” Nirupa agreed, “Though you shouldn’t swear just because your daddy does.”

Violet’s mouth pursed, because she knew full well it was naughty and she shouldn’t, but Daddy had been naughty first. “Why not?” she asked anyway.

“Because…” Mary considered. She’d almost been about to say ‘because nice girls don’t swear’, but you know, fuck that shit. “Because sometimes it shocks people,” said Mary, “And it’s not always the right time to shock them. Your Daddy swears so much that he doesn’t really shock people with it anymore, and he forgets he’s even doing it, but it can be more effective to wait until you really want to make them pay attention.”

Violet contemplated this rather complicated answer. “So I should only swear like Daddy if I want to shock people?”

Mary wasn’t at all sure that was the message she had tried to impart. She attempted to clarify. “And only if you want to shock them for a good reason.”

Violet thought about this a bit more.

Nirupa tried to help. “It’s like how Sherlock is very rude sometimes to the people who come to see him, so he can find out things they’re hiding. He uses shock to find the truth.”

“And because some of them are idiots,” said Violet, nodding.

Mary sighed. Because it was, sadly, true. Seriously, she wondered what kind of moral compass they were providing for their daughter, because it seemed to her that sometimes the needle on that thing just swung in hysterical circles and failed to give clear direction.

“Sherlock thinks everyone is an idiot,” pronounced Violet, “Except me and Ford.” She peered at Nirupa. “And Nirupa, usually, and you and Daddy sometimes.” She giggled. “And then Daddy gets mad at Sherlock and calls him an idiot too, and then they laugh.”

“Yes. Your daddies are both idiots,” Mary agreed.

“Everyone’s an idiot,” Violet stated in a tone not unlike Sherlock’s, then she giggled again. “Sherlock’s a grumpy bum.”

“He is,” agreed Mary, “Sometimes.”

“But he has pretty hair.”

“He does,” Mary continued to agree.

“But it’s not as pretty as yours and Rupe’s.”

“Oh, it really is,” Nirupa said, all seriousness, “It’s _princess_ hair.”

Violet giggled again and jammed her fingers into her own dark locks, ruffling them up the way she’d seen Sherlock roughly finger-comb his own hair. Then she danced about to the song that had just begun on the radio. Mary rose to turn the volume up and before long the three of them were leaping and gyrating around the flat. Mary was singing along.

_Dance, dance, we’re falling apart to half time  
_ _Dance, dance, these are the lives you love to lead…_

Nirupa scooped Violet up into her arms and swung her around. Violet, laughing, clung to Nirupa’s shoulders and shout-whispered into her ear, “ _You’ve_ got pretty princess hair.”

“And you’ve made it prettier with plaits,” declared Nirupa.

“Like the yoo-hoo-braas.”

“Yorubas.”

“Yo-roo-baas,” Violet sounded it out, then cried out “Faster! Faster!” so that Nirupa would swing them in dizzy circles until they both staggered and dropped onto the sofa.

Mary dropped down next to Nirupa and leaned in to whisper in her friend’s ear: “Yours **is** pretty fucking princess hair.” And they both giggled like naughty kids.

“Right,” said Violet, wobbling to her feet and heading back towards her little treasure box of cosmetic delights. “It's time to make your faces prettier.”

Nirupa and Mary exchanged glances again, but the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing made them grin.

“Looks like your daddies are home,” said Mary, “You should make them pretty too.”

Violet’s eyes lit up. “I promised Daddy I would.”

“Excellent. And don’t forget Sherlock. Don’t want him to be jealous of how pretty you Daddy will be.”

“Nooooo,” agreed Violet, and began lining up eyeshadow, blusher, lipstick and nail polish.

This was going to be a big afternoon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My reference for the comments on the Nigerian hairstyles is [ here.](http://www.nairaland.com/1155248/55-different-yoruba-hairstyles)
> 
> The song on the radio at the end is Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy.


	4. Tone Down the Make-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet expresses her artistry with hair and make-up in the fullest manner possible with all four of her parents, and with Ford. Mrs Hudson regards John Watson's made-up face and decides, rather unnervingly for John, he reminds her of someone.

The sound of two men walking up the stairs to 221b Baker Street was supplemented by the sound of two deep voices and a third, higher and more excited.

Violet threw herself at the door and flung it open with a cry of: “ _Sherry!!!_ ”

Ford wriggled in Sherlock’s arms until he was put down, and then he ran full tilt at his best friend while she ran at him, and the two children collided, fell down, sat up, flung themselves at each other again and giggled like maniacs while hugging like there was no tomorrow.

Grinning, John shoved the parcels he held under one arm into Sherlock’s hands. He opened the door leading to the kitchen and diverted around the giggling bodies on the landing into the flat that way. Sherlock remained standing over the children, one eyebrow raised at them.

Violet and Ford, arms around each other, looked up at him. Violet, who was unable to raise a single eyebrow, pushed her right one up with her finger so she could match his expression. “Hello, Sherlock.”

A little grin appeared at the corners of his pressed lips and his eyes sparkled. “Hello Violet. Ford is staying the afternoon,” he said, in a mock-serious tone, “He said he wants his hair done.”

Ford flung his hands in the air in triumphant agreement. “Like in the picture John sent me yesterday. I want pretty hair like Sherlock had in that, with the butterflies.”

“And I’ve brought these,” Sherlock held out the parcels, “I ordered them online. You said you wanted some special ones.”

Violet jumped to her feet, grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and Ford’s, and dragged them both into the flat. Nirupa was completing Violet’s beauty shop set up. John and Mary were for the moment out of sight – around the corner in the kitchen, actually, kissing. Nirupa and Sherlock exchanged a look of indulgent long suffering.

Sherlock put the parcels on the table and watched while the children opened them up. He had ordered hair pins and clips from three different online stores. Some pins had bows on them, others flowers, ladybugs, little cupcakes, and one parcel contained bows surmounted by skulls and others by guns.

Mary and John returned, holding hands, and Mary started to laugh. “You bought your own hairclips. For your own hair.”

“Butterflies don’t really suit me,” he said.

“But skulls do.” John lifted one of the skulls on ribbons and held it above Sherlock’s ear. “Yes, very you.”

Violet squealed with delight, took the skull-bow from John’s hand and tugged Sherlock down so she could put it in his hair. She patted the curls all around it and then put the other five of the set in.

Ford watched her solemnly, then nodded. “Pretty.”

Violet took one of them out of Sherlock’s hair again and put it in Ford’s. Ford beamed.

“I’m going to do _your_ hair,” said Violet, getting her hands into the packets and cards full of pins, “And Mummy’s hair, and Daddy’s hair, and Sherlock’s hair, and Rupe’s hair, and I’m going to do their nails and their lipstick and their eyes, and you can help.”

It was indeed going to be a big afternoon.

*

When Mrs Hudson stopped by with cakes and sandwiches, she stared for a good long while.

John was sitting on the floor, prodding at the decorations on his head. John’s fine hair had finally been brought to heel with an array of non-slip bows of every colour, highlighted with a few of the guns-and-bows clips that had accompanied Sherlock’s skull pins. His eyeshadow was a startling primary blue and spread unevenly from his eyelids outward. His cheeks were rosy red with blusher (one side more lavishly coloured than the other) and his mouth was bright pink. He was busy rubbing a finger over his front teeth to remove the excess that his beloved had just pointed out to him.

He looked up at Mrs Hudson staring at him. “Pink’s not really my colour, I know,” he said.

“Oh no dear,” said Mrs Hudson, finding her voice, “The pink is perfect. The blue is maybe too much of a clash with your eyes. You should wear a darker shade, one of those new ranges with the bronze highlights. And some mascara for your lashes.”

John blinked rapidly. Apart from anything else, as much as he loved his daughter and this whole ridiculous dress-ups thing, he was not letting a five year old near his eyes with a jabby mascara stick. She’d applied the eyeshadow with a fluffy brush and that had been harrowing enough.

Still, Mrs Hudson stared. “You remind me of someone.”

“That’s what I said,” offered Mary. Her short dark hair was held back with an Alice band, to which Violet and Ford had attached a heavy array of cupcake pins. Her face was also lavishly made up.

“Coco the Clown?” suggested John.

“No,” said Mrs Hudson, “It’ll come to me.”

She turned to take in the rest of the inhabitants.

Nirupa had her long hair coiled in a falling-apart plait on top of her head, and it was full of ladybirds. She and Mary were both were painted with matching red cheeks, bright red lips and green eyeshadow.

Sitting on the floor was Sherlock, re-plaited hair full of not only the skull-bow pins but also some skeletal hands in pretty colours. His eyes were closed as Ford carefully applied coral coloured lipstick to his upper lip. Ford’s head was a riot of clips and bows and ribbons. He’d chosen every single one himself, including a few of the skull-bows, some ladybirds, a handful of musical notes, a whole section devoted to liquorice allsorts and two big sequinned butterflies from Violet’s earlier collection. His face was made-up in as many colours as could be found on his head – one green eye, one purple; one dark red cheek and one more orangey, and a spreading smear of pink on his upper lip and red on his lower.

“Oops,” said Ford, going outside the lines of Sherlock’s bow lips. Sherlock opened one eye to try to see for himself. Violet scrambled for a mirror to show him. Sherlock rubbed at the coral smudge with the tip of his finger, then stretched and smeared his lips together to even out the colour, ending with a moue at the mirror.

“Yes, yes, you’re beautiful. Give that here.” John held out his hand for the mirror. Sherlock tried to keep it out of his hand, but Violet told him not to be silly, took it from him and handed it to her father.

“See Daddy? You’re like a pretty lady, now.”

John peered at his reflection, frowning. Violet watched him with concern. “Don’t you like it, Daddy? I tried to make you _very_ pretty. Not as pretty as Sherry, I know...”

“Ford looks fabulous, and I ‘m pretty too, sweetheart,” he assured her.

“Yes, you are,” Mary agreed, giggling, “Sherlock’s not the only princess in this house.”

John tilted his head to one side, then the other, then pursed his lips and finally tucked his chin down and turned his head to three-quarter profile.

“You don’t think…” he began hesitantly, “I look a little bit like Tad’s wife, Charlotte?”

“O! That’s who you remind me of!” declared Mrs Hudson.

“Don’t be absurd,” responded Sherlock, a little too quickly.

“I do,” said John, sounded puzzled and startled, “I look like Charlotte Anderson.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock briskly, “If you looked at all like Charlotte I’d have noticed. And mentioned it.”

John put the mirror down to glare sort-of-fondly at Sherlock. “Of course you would, you git, you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“There you go, then,” said Sherlock, “No resemblance at all. Mrs Hudson, you need your eyesight checked.”

While Mrs Hudson polished the reading glasses that hung around her neck and lifted them up to take a second look, Sherlock caught Nirupa’s eye and refused steadfastly to have any expression at all. Nirupa’s mouth twitched in a conspiratorial grin, but she didn’t say a word.

Mrs Hudson peered at John until he felt remarkably uncomfortable. “I suppose you’re right,” she said with a sigh, “Charlotte has much fuller lips and thicker hair.”

John was unreasonably disgruntled with that observation.

“Can I do your hair, Mrs H?” Violet asked, forestalling his complaint.

Mrs Hudson patted her hair, which had just been done at some expense at the hairdressers. “Not today dear, but how about you do my nails?” She offered her bare hand for Violet’s inspection. Violet seized upon it, led Mrs Hudson to a chair and sat her down.

“I want to do your nails, a different colour on each nail. As an _experiment_ ,” said Ford to Sherlock, who obediently held out his hand. Who was he to stand in the way of science, after all?  And frankly, he’d been wanting to experiment with nail polish for a while now.

 With a sigh, John leaned back against the sofa and Mary’s leg. He batted his lashes up at her. “Do you think I’m a pretty lady, honey?”

“I think you’re gorgeous,” Mary agreed, leaning down to peck a kiss on the tip of his nose, which seemed the only spot likely not to smudge.

“And you don’t think I look like Charlotte Anderson?”

“No, my pretty lady-man love, I think you look like John Watson in drag.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” he decided, and settled in to watch the process by which Ford and Violet chose which colours to paint each nail of their current willing victims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story references the Guitar Man story [I've Just Seen a Face](http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/924453), where Sherlock first noticed that Charlotte bore a passing resemblance to John, and swore to never mention it to a soul.
> 
> I forgot to include links to the pics of all the fabulous bows!
> 
>  
> 
> [ Musical notes in Ford's hair](http://isthatyourhair.wordpress.com/2012/01/04/sprinkle-your-natural-hair/)
> 
>  
> 
> [John’s bows](http://www.banggood.com/Sweet-Baby-Girls-Hair-Clips-Kids-Ribbon-Hairpins-Alligator-Bow-Clips-p-80284.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [ and his guns and bows](http://www.polyvore.com/extreme_largeness_crossed_guns_hair/thing?id=25485511)
> 
> [Cakes and food](http://ronitgolan.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/playing-with-miniature-food.html)
> 
> [Sherlock's Skulls and bows](http://www.polyvore.com/extreme_largeness_flower_skull_hair/thing?id=8373454)
> 
> and also [rockabilly style](http://www.atomiccherry.com.au/rockabilly-skull-cross-bones-hair-clips)
> 
> and [skeleton hands too](http://www.aliexpress.com/store/product/Wholesale-BOW-hot-sale-Fashion-skeleton-claws-skull-hand-hair-clip-hairpin-Zombie-Punk-Horror-hairwear/605946_946981239.html)


	5. I'm Gonna Strut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the end of the afternoon, not a person in Baker Street was left unfestooned by hairclips, make-up or nailpolish. And then Mycroft and Sally arrive to collect their lavishly decorated son.

Sherlock was bent low over Ford’s left hand, inspecting, as requested, the glorious result of his experiment. Corresponding fingers on Sherlock’s and Ford’s hands were painted in matching colours, and Ford now wanted Sherlock to calculate the difference in surface area between the equivalent nails. Of course, he hadn’t needed nail polish to achieve that, but nail polish had made it more fun.

Ford laid his small, brown hand over Sherlock’s large, pale one so that his fingers lay along Sherlock’s, and Sherlock was explaining the maths of his calculations. Ford nodded as though he understood, and very possibly he did. He was four years old, but a Holmes. When Sherlock got him to do the sums to compare their pinkies, he got the right answer and then did a kind of victory wriggle.

Violet wished she wasn’t missing out on understanding maths, but then, she thought, wriggling was more fun than maths, and the song on the radio was a good wriggling song, and the next thing everyone knew, she and Ford were in the middle of the carpet, doing their wriggly dance to Katy Perry’s _Hot N Cold_.

Sally opened the door onto the Great Dance Floor of 221b Baker Street. In it, Ford and Violet were bouncing around in their glittery, cosmetic, be-hairpinned glory while John knelt at Mary’s feet, slapping out an accompanying rhythm on his thighs. Mrs Hudson was clapping along, while Mary and Nirupa lip-synched into hairbrushes. Sherlock was just watching them with a kind of quiet, awe-filled adoration which, in this company, he made no attempt to hide.

Seeing Sally smiling at everyone from the door, Ford skipped to the centre of the lounge, turned in a circle with his arms in the air and shouted: “Mummy! I’ve got pretty fucking princess hair!!”

“Sherry,” Violet scolded him, “I said my Mums said to only swear if you want to shock someone.”

Ford’s face was still alight with a happy smile as he pointed at his mother. “I shocked Mummy!”

“No darling,” said Sally with a rueful smile, “You really didn’t.” And she cast a meaningful glance at John Watson, who tried briefly to look repentant. It was a hard look to maintain, what with the bows in his hair, and all the make-up, and the fact that he kept thinking it was inappropriately funny.  

Sally’s eyebrows suddenly drew together in consternation. She opened her mouth to say something, but from the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock frown and minutely shake his head. So she let John’s uncanny resemblance to Charlotte Anderson – despite her longer, dyed-red hair these days – go uncommented.

Besides, the sight of Sherlock with his hair in skulls and skeleton hands, his face painted up like a china doll and his fingernails a rainbow of badly applied polish, made it hard to remember what she was going to say anyway.

Sally knelt before her son and smiled as he grinned at her and bowed his head to show her all the pretty things nesting in his curly hair. “You look lovely, Ford.”

“I’m a princess like Sherlock,” he declared.

“Yes, darling, you are.” She looked up at Sherlock and John, Mary and Nirupa, all in their bows and colours, and Mrs Hudson blowing on her own riotously coloured nails, and Violet herself, who had been made up by Ford, Sally guessed, by her meticulous appearance that resembled Sherlock’s.  “You are all very pretty princesses. But you and Violet are the prettiest.”

Ford pulled one of the liquorice allsorts pins from his hair and reached out to slide it haphazardly into his mother’s hair. “Now you’re a pretty princess too.”

“What about me?”

Ford grinned up at Mycroft, who was looking lovingly at his son, partly because he was totally besotted with his boy, and partly because everyone else in the room was so eye-wateringly decorated that, _en masse_ , they gave him a bit of a headache.

Ford felt on the top of his head for some of the cakey pins, yanked them out with some difficulty, and stretched up. Mycroft crouched and lowered his head so that Ford could slide the pins into his fringe. Ford patted his father’s head absent-mindedly while he considered the effect, then transferred a sequinned butterfly and a doughnut pin as well.

“You should do his face,” suggested Sherlock with a sly grin. Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him, but simply puckered up slightly. Giggling, Violet ran over with a plum coloured lipstick and painted in his lower lip. Ford took over the task to do his upper, concentrating with his tongue poking out to get the colour exactly in the confines of Mycroft’s lip.

Then Sally gave Mycroft the kind of stirring look that Sherlock wished very much he’d never seen anyone give his older brother, and Mycroft sort of twinkled back in an even more alarming manner. To escape from having to think about the sudden insights, he jumped to his feet to… to… make tea. Hand around cakes. Anything, _dear god_ , but look at the pair of them silently flirting and making unspoken plans together.

Apparently, they were so obvious that even John felt the need to spring to his feet to help with whatever Sherlock decided he was doing. They both ended up in the kitchen, making tea. While Sherlock pulled down cups and plates, John was shouting out: “Black isn’t it for you Mycroft? And sugar for you Sally? No, the other way round, that’s right, isn’t it? And biscuits? Mrs Hudson brought cake, if you’d prefer. We have sandwiches.”

“Ford, do your mother’s nails!” Sherlock said loudly, and possibly a little desperately, and on hearing Sally’s low laugh, he banged his head deliberately and gently on an open cupboard door, three times. Then he and John exchanged a look and started to laugh at each other.

“This family is absurd,” Sherlock declared, though he said it with a deep note of underlying approval.

John just stared at Sherlock, braided hair in bright clips, face painted, nails glistening, for two beats, then dissolved into helpless guffaws, forehead against Sherlock’s breastbone. “Pretty fucking princess hair,” John was wheezing between giggles.

“Your own is considerably… princessy. And you’re getting make-up on my shirt.”’

John only laughed harder.

Out in the living room, Ford had tugged his father onto the carpet to wriggle-dance with him, while Violet had claimed Sally’s hand for the same, as the radio played its latest track from the 2000s.

_We’re all right where we’re supposed to be  
_ _We’re all right where we’re supposed to be  
_ _(Time means nothing)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final song they dance to is After Hours, by We Are Scientists.


End file.
